The Writer's Life 4/1

Our postman arrives after 4 PM. I frequently forget about it and don't pick up my mail until the next morning. Logging off the computer at 7:30 last night, I suddenly remembered and went to the lobby hoping there would be a mail order for Killing in the box. There was even better news - a letter from a TV producer interested in purchasing A Hitch in Twilight and any other stories I might have in that vein. The compensation offered was staggering. I've been writing since 1975. All those years have finally paid off. I have a meeting scheduled in midtown Manhattan tomorrow afternoon. The floating book shop's customers will have to do without me for a day. I haven't told any family members yet for fear the deal will fall through. I have no idea what to say. I'm so grateful I don't dare make any demands, even if drastic changes are proposed for the stories. Unlike my novels, which I would not want changed, I intended the stories in Hitch as sheer entertainment, diabolical fun. Wish me luck.

April Fools! Maybe some day.

I did have good luck today, though, selling a copy of Killing to an Italian-American woman. She laughed when I bookmarked the Glossary of Brooklyn Sicilian terms at the back of the book. "I probably won't need it," she said. Thank you, Maryann, and thanks also to my buddy Bob, who purchased Primal Fear (1996) on VHS. He can't stop talking about the last tape I sold him: David Lynch's bizarre classic Blue Velvet (1986).

Last night my lovely niece Tanya emailed me. I'd recently sent her a copy of Killing through the mail. The package arrived in Denver in a plastic bag and had a note of apology attached. It had been opened and the book had been replaced with a DVD about Korean orphans. Maybe Newman has transferred to our local post office. I've mailed out a lot of books the past few years, and this is the first time anything bad has happened. I send them Media Mail, which is the least expensive option. It has worked like a charm. I'll chalk the incident up as the cost of doing business, unless the parcel I sent to Joey Fork Tongue a few days ago suffers the same fate.

Newman!

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